


the one you're looking for

by CopperCaravan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Character Study, Codename: Tens, Dancing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:24:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9267509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: A few months post the destruction of the Institute and Tens discovering she's a synth, Nick has a moment of clarity.





	

All together, Nick (and Original Nick, Old Nick, Dead Nick, Not-Him-Nick) has over two centuries of cases under his belt. In all that time, seems like there ought to have been a little off-time, a little slow-down, a little peace.  

But there’s not. There’s just busy and busier, fast and faster, dangerous and more dangerous.

And now there’s this; now there’s her.

He won’t pretend he’s all that sorry that the Institute went up in flames because he’s not, but there’s still so many questions left unanswered—for him and for her—and Nick doesn’t like loose ends, though in the Commonwealth, that’s something he’s learned he has to live with.

She ran off for a while afterward, and he couldn’t blame her for that. Missed her, sure, but Nick knows—though maybe it took a while—that sometimes you just gotta let go. And this time, she came back: crept into the office late one night, shoulders hunched and head down like she was waiting for him to scold her but he just got up from his desk and put his hand on her arm and said “Welcome back, partner.” Because that’s what she is. She’s his partner. In more ways than one, but in only one way he can name.

And him, well he’s only been gone for the better part of the day but when he comes back into the office, long used to seeing her bent over her desk reading or working or sleeping, she perks right up and says “Welcome back, partner.”

Tonight, Ellie’s off and the radio’s on. The radio’s usually on these days; used to distract him— _before,_ before her, before...—but not anymore; all new distractions now.

_I see you lookin' 'round the corner_   
_Come on inside and pull up a chair_   
_No need to feel like a stranger_   
_Cause we're all a little strange in here._

Magnolia’s voice comes in strong and low and with just a little static through the speaker. It’s fitting, he supposes, maybe a little _too_ fitting. He’s known other synths—none like _him_ , no, but he’s known enough that he thinks he ought to not feel quite so alone anymore.

The Institute, the Mechanist, the Railroad, Arcadia—he’s seen so much and met so many who have _just enough_ in common with him, but he’s not a Gen 2 or a Gen 3 or a robobrain or a memwipe or DiMA. He’s Not-Really-Nick Valentine, wholly unique synth detective or clockwork dick—it’s all just vocabulary at this point. What matters is that _just enough_ isn’t enough: he’s the only one.

_Have you got a history that needs erasing?_   
_Did you come in just for the beer and cigarettes?_   
_A broken down dream you're tired of chasing_   
_Oh, well I'm just the girl to make you forget._

And now there’s this; now there’s her.

It’s wrong, maybe, for something to have swelled up inside him bright as a light in the dark when she told him. Somewhere between Gen 3 and Gen 3.5, she’s there—sleeps and eats and dreams but doesn’t grow, doesn’t change. Stuck in the Commonwealth for eternity, knowing her memories aren’t her own.

She’s been thinking of choosing a new name, but Nick doesn’t think she will. He considered the same for a while, but in the end he didn’t: Nick Valentine is all he knows how to be even if he’s actually Not-Really-Nick.

He watches her for a minute from his own desk. Nobody knows but him. The Institute, sure, but dead men tell no tales. The people who know her will look at her and see _her,_ they won’t see a synth, they won’t see a replacement or a second chance or a copy of the mother of the Institute. That’s something she has that Nick never will, but even still, for once _just enough_ is enough.

_So we're glad you dropped by_   
_Come in and loosen up your tie_   
_Have a drink or maybe just one more_   
_But if you're searchin' for something to bring you comfort_   
_Oh well, I'm the one you're lookin' for._

“Hey,” he says, to get her attention.

She _hmms_ and tips her head in his direction, eyes still focused on the file in her hands—a favour for Ellie, a missing friend from a settlement out west. They’re heading out there in the morning. But there’s still tonight.

“C’mere.”

When she looks up at him, a little surprised, he stands up, arms opening in invitation and without even a hint of uncertainty. There’s so many questions still unanswered for the two of them, but for the _two_ of them.  

“Dance with me,” he says.

Her eyes flick toward the floor, just for a second, then back up to his. “I—I don’t know how.”

“I’ll show you.”

_Now is your motor running close to empty?_   
_Or are you runnin' from yourself?_   
_You're thirsty for a brand new kind of pleasure?_   
_Or are you hungry to be somebody else?_

So he does. It’s awkward too—she steps on his feet and holds him so tightly it might hurt and she stammers and looks at the floor and blushes. She’s nothing like Special Operative Tens, high-profile assassin and international rabble-rouser. She’s nothing like Gen 3-point-something, combat-ready and courser-trained, replica of Father’s Mother.

It’s just her and him and they’re dancing in the too-small space of the office, silent and happy and together. Finally.

There’s her, there’s this, there’s a moment of peace.

_So sit down your pretty face_   
_You came to the right place_   
_Oh, where every night it starts once more_   
_I'm telling you friend, your search is at an end_   
_Cause I'm the one you're lookin' for._


End file.
